The Earth Between Them
by VicariousWindows
Summary: Pent-up guilt and a day of road-weary fighting ends with the brothers tensely sharing a single motel bed, close, yet more distant than ever. When Sam's mistake leaves Dean reliving his burial, Sam must work quickly to save his brother and close the gap. *NO SLASH* S4 era, just after Dean's return from Hell.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

After everything, it ended up being the Black Hills Oasis off of Highway 12 that threw Sam into an existential crisis. Here, where a herd of bronze-plated antelope and buffalo would forever graze the gravel plains beside the pink stucco toilet building, guarded by a sun-cracked mural of an Apache warrior atop his snarling steed.

To Sam, the rest stop's most memorable feature was the scrawl of graffiti in the first toilet stall: _Eat a dick._ Sam was six when he first asked Dean what it meant. Dean had snorted, delighted at knowing something the younger didn't. Still, faithful to his duty as wise older brother, he gestured to his groin and whispered back, "It's another word for penis, dummy." Sam held that thought in his head for a full five minutes - until they were back in the boiling interior of the Impala and Dad was peeling out onto the highway - gravel popping under the tires - and Sam leaned over the backseat between his father and brother and asked with wonder, "How can you _eat_ a penis?"

The thing was, Sam had memories here. If a hundred no-tell motels and rest stops scattered across the country were his equivalent of a home, the Black Hills Oasis was as near of a backyard playground as he could imagine. _Oh give me a home, where the buffalos roam…_ He was five when Dean was finally big enough to lift him up to ride on the back of the bronze buffalo. At eight, he could make it up on his own. At nine, he'd conquered the antelope. At ten, he'd tried for the horns of the elk and fallen off spectacularly, earning himself a swollen elbow that throbbed spectacularly after his father's rough inspection.

Later, in the car, John turned down the radio and shot a sideways glance at Dean. Dad's disapproving glances, however brief, were not easily forgotten. "You gotta quit babying him, Dean. You're making him soft. You're gonna get him killed one day."

In the backseat, Sam mouthed his silent protest: _I'm not a baby!_

But Dean didn't say a word other than "Yessir" which hurt Sam even more. He wanted his brother to defend him. More than that, he wanted his brother to defend _himself_. Instead, Dean held onto his silence for the remainder of the ride to the motel. In fact, the silence lingered even after John had departed for the hunt and Dean had reset the salt lines and thrown Sam's half-eaten Chef Boyardee into the kitchenette sink and then found a Rambo marathon on TV to fill the vacuum of sound.

Later that night, Sam was asleep in the bed farthest from the door when he felt the blankets stretch and his brother's weight tilting the thin mattress. He popped an eye open and saw John's monstrous silhouette in the bed closest to the door, heard his guttural snores grinding like a bad muffler. Then, Dean settled down and closed the space between them.

Sam decided it was now or never.

"Dean, are you mad at me?" he whispered into the back of his brother's head.

In response, Dean shot an elbow back, forcing Sam to retreat to the opposite edge of the narrow bed.

"Hey!" Sam yelped, dangerously loudly. They both froze as John sputtered.

Dean's anger took up more space on the bed than Sam could make room for. He felt goose pimples break out on his shoulders. The room was cold. The heat wasn't working. His brother's usual furnace of body heat was lost in the vastness of space between them.

John's distance was all he'd known since birth. Dean's was something new and it made him feel vulnerable and alone. Scared like a baby, Sam realized. Maybe this was just Dean's way of following orders and forcing him to be a man.

"Dean?" he tried again. "I'm sorry I got you in trouble, okay? Please don't be mad."

Dean remained silent. Sam curled his arms around himself and sought the hard edge of the mattress. One foot dangled out into the unwelcome air, but when the shivering came, it was more from worry than the cold.

He fell into a semi-sleep, unaware of the time passing until he felt the heavy weight of his brother's arm wrap over his shoulders and drag him back into the warmth. Instantly, his body stilled.

Before sleep rolled over him, Sam heard his brother's whispered voice return: "Relax bro. We're good."


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

The last time Sam had been to the Oasis, it had been John behind the wheel. This time, it was Dean who eased the Impala to a stop beneath the watchful eye of the old Apache. The bronze menagerie was still standing as it was, frozen in time. Sam didn't think it was fair that something could remain so unchanged when his own life had been battered beyond recognition in the meantime. The antelope, the elk, the buffalo - they were all here. But Jess was gone. _Dad_ was gone.

As Sam made his way to the toilet, he was sharply aware of how much his 6 foot 7 inch frame now dwarfed the once-mighty elk. Even Dean called out in jest, "Need a leg up for a ride, Sammy?"

Sam ducked into the toilets without acknowledging him.

The door on the first stall had fallen off since the last time he'd been here. Everything else was exactly as he'd left it. Even the scrawled _Eat a dick -_ though flaking with the avocado paint – had stood the test of time.

Standing at the john, Sam felt a heaviness settle over his shoulders as they weighed his surroundings - and this life - and the knowledge that it had taken him back and forth across the country and somehow always deposited him back here. By now, he assumed he would have found a different destination. He'd be well into law school by now. Married to Jess. Maybe in their own place in California - a real home, a permanent one. Not this endless cycle between one crisis and the next, punctuated with rest stops and motels and greasy diners. Sam had put in a million miles and gotten nowhere.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Sam found his brother pacing, cell phone pressed against his ear, eyes vaguely scanning the flat expanse of nothingness surrounding them. Probably updating Bobby, who had been the source for this sudden detour to Reno. It was a milk run, really. Bobby'd been putting a spirit down when he got thrown into a mausoleum and ended up with a rack of cracked ribs and a broken shoulder. As such, he was far from grave digging condition. Dean, loyal as he was, had no problem with detouring some 400 miles to dig a hole. Sam, on the other hand, couldn't muster the enthusiasm. He felt the same way about cemeteries as Dean did about libraries.

With a lack of enthusiasm came limited patience for his brother's idiosyncrasies. Dean loved the open road. To him, it meant freedom. Sam didn't see the appeal. Freedom from restraint meant freedom from security. Stability. Home. The only constant in Sam's life was his big brother and Dean was as constant as the surface of the ocean. Calm, choppy, storm-tossed, turbulent. Take your pick.

But mostly it was the little things. It was Dean's insistence on blaring the same three cassettes in endless loop. It was the way he drove - one hand laying atop the wheel, the other picking his teeth, his ears, his nose. The way he examined whatever he'd found before rolling down the window to flick it into the wind. Sam imagined there were little bits of his brother strewn back and forth across the country like a trail of breadcrumbs. Then there was the overbearing way he flirted with every waitress in every diner they stopped at. He used the same tired old lines, the same toothy smiles. Half the time, he acted all of thirteen years old. The other half, which Sam actually found more tiresome, he acted like their father.

When Dean finished up the call with Bobby, he joined Sam in the sweltering Impala and brought the engine to the life.

"Coupla hours to go," Dean offered, as they pulled out onto the highway.

"Goody," Sam huffed.

Dean punctuated his return to pavement by twisting the volume knob until AC/DC was back at Volume Level: Deafening. Sam groaned and leaned pointedly into the door. Brian Johnson wailed his way through _Highway to Hell_ , which Sam imagined fit perfectly for the soundtrack to this particular moment in his life.

On top of that, it was hot. Damn hot. It was Death Valley without air conditioning, and the sun pouring in through the windshield and frying him like an ant under a magnifying glass. Sam was so hot, he was starting to get chills. The feeling of being trapped in this miserable assault on the senses collided with the epiphany he'd had of being trapped in his life and Sam blew up.

"Goddamnit Dean, can you turn it down just a little!" he belted over Johnson's tenor scream.

Dean's response, as any big brother's would be, was to crank it up.

Sam knew if he made a move for that dial, they'd end up in combat. The number of slap battles played out in the Impala was beyond measure. Every one had been worth it. So Sam went for the dial.

Sure enough Dean responded with a backhand, which Sam deflected with a bone-to-bone blow that left both of them recoiling.

"Jesus, Samantha. What's your fucking problem?" Dean hissed.

Sam sensed the boil over and tried to change tactics. More heat was the last thing they needed.

"I've got killer headache, okay?"

If Sam had counted on his older brother's sympathy, he forgot to expect his hovering concern. Dean let a few long moments of silence go by before probing, "What kind of headache?"

Sam hadn't had one really, though he was beginning to get one now.

"It's nothing."

"Sam," Dean warned.

"Dean, it's a normal headache."

"You getting enough water?"

Sam scowled. Here it was again. Zero to Dad in six seconds. "Yes."

"You're not still getting that whole freaky mojo thing, right?"

It bothered Sam even more that Dean still skirted around the words, like he was either afraid or ashamed to admit his younger brother was a demon-tainted _freak_.

"Yes Dean," Sam snapped, "It's a vision. I see you, playing the same freaking tape over and over again for the next 200 miles until my head explodes, but you don't care because you're king of the car."

Dean snapped a look so fierce, it could've given him whiplash. "Sorry if I'd rather listen to something other than your constant whining, because I've had 24 friggin' years of that already, Sammy."

The space between them was exploding at supernova speeds, pinning Sam to the passenger door. He had an unbearable urge to jump out. Broken bones and bruises were nothing compared to suffocating in the heat he knew he'd created.

Without Sam's retort, Dean fell silent, cooling in his usual way - from lava to hard igneous. Sam held onto his anger as long as he could indulge it, before it dissolved into a weary forgetting. He closed his eyes and didn't wake again until the Impala's engine cut off at their destination.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Sam was surprised to find the digging a welcome release. Dean may have cooled off, but he was still hard as a rock. The wall he normally put up for Sam's benefit was now fortified against him. Sam knew his own faults, that he was too proud to admit he was wrong and venture an apology. Instead, he murdered the ground with each shovel stab. He worked fast and furiously, flinging the dirt aside with no concern whether or not it tumbled back into the hole or struck his brother - who was working at the opposite end of the plot. It was like he was inviting Dean to yell at him - or, begging him to break his silence.

Within record time, Hanna Cromwell's last remains were up in smoke. As the bones disintegrated to ash, they sat in silence - each staring at the headstone as the firelight carved out shadows in the valleys of the inscription:

 _Hanna Cromwell, 1820 to 1872. Beloved mother. May she rest in the arms of The Lord._

Sam never could reconcile the angry spirits he'd encountered with the humans they had once been. Hanna had been far from at rest. The once beloved mother had turned violent, terrorizing the family now living in her former home. She was at rest now, at least. It wasn't much, Sam realized, but it was all the reward they were ever going to get. The only thing that made this job worth doing - saving some family from going through the same hell his had. Saving some violent, pissed off spirit from being trapped in an eternity of its own wrath. Sam only wished he could do the same for himself.

When enough of the bones had been purified, they doused the fire with dirt and made quick work of filling the hole back in.

Sam trudged back to the car, every fiber in his body focused on getting horizontal as soon as possible. It was enough just to keep his eyes open.

Dean tossed the shovels into the trunk. The car shook as he threw down the hood. Sam pulled out his phone and started looking up motels, praying there was something within a few miles. The car sank with Dean's weight as he slid into the drivers seat.

"Sleep?" Dean asked, breaking the long silence with one growling, weary syllable.

"Yeah," Sam cleared his throat, finding his voice raw from disuse. "Reno Lodge, 5 minutes north."

Dean turned the key in the ignition and the Impala woke, slowly and begrudgingly. Even she was reluctant to be pushed any further into this night.

It was all Sam to do to stay awake for his brother's sake. He might have been vaguely pissed at Dean, but he wasn't that much of a jerk. Still, through his bleary vision, the Reno Lodge's neon beacon was a welcome sight.

Dean pulled to a stop outside the office. Sam was relieved to see slits of harsh light through the blinds indicating someone was up.

As usual, Dean left Sam to gather the gear and lock up the car while he headed into the office. Sam snagged their duffels from the trunk and threw them unceremoniously onto the sidewalk in front of the office. He took a moment to lean into the rough wooden siding of the building, letting the night's cool air invade the heat still pouring off of his abused body. The night was still, apart from the chatter of mutant desert bugs and the occasional whisper of a passing car. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the vertigo of sleep begin to rock his frame.

 _What the Hell is taking Dean so long?_

At last Dean emerged, jangling door bells and heavy steps assaulting Sam's daze.

"This sucks," was Dean's first report.

"Please tell me there's a room."

Dean didn't answer, but he was holding a key and so Sam snagged the duffels and followed him. At the farthest end of the building, Dean stopped and popped open the door.

Sam had seen a thousand stale, dusty motel rooms in his lifetime. This one could have been a concrete cell for all he cared, so long as it had a bed.

As soon as Dean flipped on the light, Sam saw the problem.

"You got a single bed?" Sam groaned, fully aware how whiny his voice had sounded.

"No choice dumbass," Dean threw the keys onto the bedside table and kicked off his boots in one motion. "Guy said everything's booked all over town. Some dentist convention or something."

"Seriously?" Sam eyed the small single bed like it had insulted him. He'd never longed for a bed more in his life and now he'd have to share it with his restless, pissed off brother?

"Take the floor if you want it, bitch." Dean said, before immediately collapsing across the bed at an angle.

"Screw you." Sam flung his own boots into the opposite wall, which given the size of the room, wasn't much of a feat.

Dean looked up at the sound. For a half second Sam's resolve wore down when he saw the red tint of his brother's weary eyes.

Dean must have seen something in Sam's too, because he conceded to shift to the outer edge of the mattress and allow Sam his meager half of the bed.

Sam hit the light and stretched out, face down, tucking his limbs in to his sides to avoid contact. Dean shifted a few more times, rocking the springs beneath them. Finally, he flopped onto his back, taking the entire thin blanket with him. Sam felt the sting of cold air assault him instantly.

He grabbed a handful of blanket and yanked it back, only to have it wrenched yet again from his grip. The tug-of-war went on for a few more rounds before Sam finally sat up, crying, "Cut it out, Dean!"

Dean smirked. "Floor's all yours."

"You're a friggin jerk, you know that?" Sam dropped back down and resumed his tense position at the mattress edge.

Slowly, his muscles gave in, unknotting and relaxing one by one. The tension in the gap between the brothers remained. Sam knew he'd picked the fight and had no right to expect any reconciliation from his older brother. It was vague frustration and boredom. He wasn't pissed at Dean. He was just pissed in general, and Dean happened to be the only one around.

Sam was aware of his brother's respirations deepening. It wouldn't be long before those breaths would disintegrate into snores - the wheezing, whistling, tamer echoes of their father's rumbling bass. For as long as he could remember, Sam never had a lullaby sung to him. All he'd ever known was the contrasting wheezes of his father and brother, his only comfort that he wasn't alone. Like the rumble of the Impala and the rush of road beneath her tires, he found the noise soothing.

Lately, though, Sam hated the way his brother breathed. He hated the strangled uneven gasps that signaled a nightmare. He hated the wheezing wide-mouthed drags that signaled fever. He hated when those gasps would suddenly fall silent and Sam would be left, wide-eyed in the dark, listening. Waiting. Praying. Agonizing. Then deciding to throw down a fist against the mattress hard, or to choke out an obvious cough - whatever it took to hear his brother's heavy exhale or the sleep-drunk "S'my? Wass'rong?"

Sam had lain awake in the dark too many times, staring across the gap between their beds at his brother's unmoving form - straining his eyes in the dark to detect the subtle rise and fall of his chest. The thing was, Sam had once seen the pause between his brother's breaths expand into unending stillness. The worst was when they laid him on his back in that pine box. Sam had stood over his grave for hours before filling it, unable to bear the thought of putting his brother in the ground and leaving him here. You buried trash. You buried things you didn't want to see, or think about. Things that didn't belong on the surface. You didn't bury Dean.

The worst thing for Sam was knowing it was his fault. There was a time when Sam felt guilty because Dean had spent a night in jail covering for him. Forty years in Hell didn't compare. Now, Dean was back and Sam was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For that extra helping of breath his brother had been given to run out.

Feeling the familiar twinge of anxiety electrifying his gut, Sam rolled onto his back. He had overestimated the size of the bed, and as his left arm dropped into the space between them, he grazed Dean's shoulder. Dean snorted and woke with a loud, "What?"

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, drawing his arm away quickly.

"Come on," Dean groaned, flopping onto his side now, rolling away from his brother. "If you can't keep those Sasquatch paws offa me, go sleep in the car."

With that, Dean pushed the pillow into his face, muting his continued grumbling. Sam felt every knot in his body rewind. The rift between them extended far deeper than that afternoon's bickering. It was so wide, Sam realized, he couldn't even see where it had begun or where it might end.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

For hours, Sam was frozen in that brutal insomnia of over-exhaustion. The only saving grace was the dulling of his usual nightmares. Though shadowed creatures undulated through the darkness in front of his half-lidded eyes, he knew enough not to fear them. The recurring nightmares were just another constant in his life, as ordinary as the pitiful whirring of a busted motel AC and the jagged waves of amber light cast through crooked blinds.

So, it wasn't the sweeping claws of the imagined werewolf that jump-started his heart into overdrive. It was the timid buzz of his cell on the bedside table. Dean's side, of course.

Feeling no sympathy for his brother's deep slumber, Sam sat up and stretched a long arm over Dean's body to retrieve the phone. Dean started awake and flailed at the unseen attack, fingers closing over Sam's wrist like a steel trap.

"Damnit Dean," Sam hissed, wrenching his arm away with a force that surely was more painful to himself than to his brother.

"Hell're you doin'?" Dean's voice was heavy with the delirium of sleep. Sam glared into his brother's wide, moon-bright eyes. It tickled the raw nerve that had been sprouting in the center of his chest for days - weeks, even. _Slept like a baby while I'm laying here afraid to move a muscle..._

The phone buzzed again in his hand. Sam rolled back to his side of the bed and flicked on the bedside lamp as he answered.

"Sam, that you?" Bobby's voice was strained, higher in pitch than his usual whisky-gruff baritone.

"Yeah, what's going on?"

Sam felt the mattress shift with Dean's weight as he sat up in bed beside him.

"Thought you two idjits burned those bones."

"We did."

A distinctive crashing sound came through the line followed by Bobby's rough oof of pain and Sam immediately understood. "Where are you?" he asked, rising to his feet and gesturing for Dean to do the same.

Dean merely blinked at him, his expression caught somewhere between rapt anticipation and utter annoyance.

"Coopers place," came Bobby's simple reply, punctuated by another grunt.

"Who?"

"Oh for..." Bobby grumbled a series of expletives into the phone. "Coo-pers. Claire. Aaron, three kids, two dogs and one pissed off angry spirit. Didn't you two read any of what I sent?"

Sam hadn't. He figured it was enough to know what name to look for on the headstone. After that, it was grunt work. Dean's territory.

"Well the spirit's back," Bobby went on. "Or never left. You sure you two got the right bones?"

"Yeah, uh," Sam dumped the contents of his duffel out onto the rumpled bedsheets, "Hold on. Maybe a - some kind of object attachment?"

He found his laptop beneath the pile of discarded clothing and flipped up the screen. Bobby's earlier email was still pulled up, the links unopened.

Instantly, Dean was at his side. "What the _Hell's_ going on Sam?"

Sam shouldered him off and scanned the first attachment, looking for the info to confirm they'd at least done what they'd come for.

"Hannah Moses," he read aloud, "Right?"

"You get the right Hannah?" Bobby demanded

Sam tried and failed to hold back the stunned "What?"

Bobby's impatience was palpable through the phone. "Hannah _K._ Moses, born 1830, died 1848."

Sam closed his eyes and called to the mind the image of the fire-lit tombstone. He'd spent enough time staring at it at least to know the woman they'd salted and burned had been older than 18. _Beloved mother. Maybe._ He was certain, anyway, that she'd been born in the 1700's. _Shit._

He glanced at Dean, who was hovering at his side like an ominous storm cloud ready to break. Sam felt the pangs of latent little brother instinct. _I screwed up. Fix it._

Dean read his brother instantly, and so Sam didn't resist when he made his move to take the phone.

"Bobby?" Dean began, his tone in the lower register, the Dad-like authority that Sam had learned to despise so much. Despise _and_ depend on.

Sam walked away. He knew there'd be a fight. Dean was bristling. A few "Uh-huhs" and "Yeahs" later, Dean closed the phone and chucked it onto the bed.

"Way to go, Sammy," Dean said, immediately moving to his duffel to retrieve the keys.

"What?" Sam played innocent. Another little brother instinct.

"Bobby was counting on us, man. You couldn't for one freakin' second get your head outta your ass and do your job?"

"Don't pin this all on me! I thought you knew!" _It's all my fault._

Dean whirled on him. "Bobby sent _you_ the research, Geek Boy. Figured you'd actually give a damn to read it."

"Okay, so I made a mistake!" Sam felt the accelerant of _being_ _wrong_ fuel his constant fire. "So we dig another grave. Big friggin' deal."

Dean was at the door already. He stopped and turned back, his movements furious but his face set like stone.

"It _is_ a big deal, Sammy," he said, in that patient disapproving way that reduced Sam to his petulant inner child. "In this job, mistakes get people killed. I gotta know when we go out there, your head's in the game, man."

Sam heard a thousand past reproaches in Dean's words. It always came down to this, didn't it? Sam couldn't be trusted. He'd never be a hunter the way his father and brother were. He was either the baby or the burden. Maybe part of him had run away from Stanford to see if Dean and John had truly needed him. Maybe the worst part of being back was knowing they hadn't.

"Fine," Sam spat back at Dean, tired of it all - the guilt, the responsibility. He hadn't asked for any of this. "I get it. You're better off without me, Dean. You always have been."

"I don't have time for this." Dean said, again so much like their father that Sam felt his skin crawl.

So when Dean threw open the door and left without him, Sam made no move to follow. That old rooted nerve in his chest hummed and Sam held onto it. Of all the constants in his life, this _rage_ was the most familiar to him.

Dean made no pretense of waiting for him. The Impala engine yawned and roared, forever at the ready. Sam waited for the distinct peal of the tires skidding out of the parking lot before letting his eyes leave the door.

His gaze fell then onto the overturned duffel, igniting a familiar instinct. Run. Go. Get away. Then a sudden understanding rammed its meaty fist into his gut. All along, the anger had never come from wanting to get away from this life. It was a symptom of his shame: the uninhabitable shell of not belonging in it.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

What Sam hadn't counted on was the weight of Dean's absence being more unbearable than the weight of his presence. Even with full reign of the small bed, limbs outstretched to all four corners of the stolen space, Sam's gut churned with guilt guilt guilt. Growing more desperate to hear the familiar rumble of the engine or see the wash of headlights sweep over the ceiling, bringing Dean home.

Home. Sam, thought, as the AC kicked on again with a clutter and a wheeze. This wasn't home. _Dean_ was home.

Time compressed. An hour came and went in a slow blink. Sam grabbed his cell phone and fought for the lamp in the dark, giving up on this pretense of sleep entirely. Bobby had called around midnight. It was now just past four.

He sat up against the headboard, untangling his limbs from the tossed sheets and pressing his knuckles into his eyes. He was so profoundly tired. _Four hours to dig a grave?_ It never took that long. Of course, Sam realized, that was with two people sharing the work.

Maybe Dean was still pissed, had gone to a different hotel. It was unlikely. No matter how pissed they were at each other, there were _protocols_. Sam was the one who broke them - who ran away without leaving notes, or ignored his father's frantic calls - relishing in the power of shaking up their rigid, stoic little world in which he found no part. Dean, on the other hand, would have called. He would've come back. Dean would've finished a dig in less than four hours, even by himself.

He dialed Dean's number. Latent anger thrummed, mocking him for the paranoia. He felt its seed still burning in the center of his chest, and he knew he would have to rip himself open and tear it out - if just for now, while his _brother_ was out there alone and was _probably - definitely - God I hope not_ \- in danger.

The phone rang to voicemail. Sam dialed again, one hand clutching the phone, the other pawing through his duffel to find the slim jim - the metal tool used to pop open a car lock in an emergency. Was this an emergency? He imagined the reproach he'd face when he rolled up in a stolen car, finding Dean perfectly safe - if not pissed off by four hours of solo digging. _He's fine_. Sam had to believe that, so he dropped the duffel, hung up the phone, and found the number for a local taxi service. _Of course he's fine. I'll just go help him finish, we'll get an early breakfast, we'll sleep all day - we've got nowhere to be. Hell, maybe we can go down to Vegas. We've still got luck on our side, don't we?_


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

Sam had the cab driver drop him off at an intersection he knew was near - but not at - the graveyard. He'd played the role of stumbling drunk, coming home from a hookup at the local motel. It was easier than trying to explain why anyone, sane and sober, needed a ride to a cemetery at 4:30 in the morning.

Once the cab was out of sight, Sam dropped the casual swagger and begun to run - across an intersection, red lights blinking at all four empty corners - past the 24-hour Laundromat, its windows garish and bright - then through a smattering of sleeping homes and through the humble gates of the small church yard.

The desert night was crisp, cooler than he'd expected given the boiling heat of the day. Still, Sam found himself breaking into a sweat as he ran up and down the rows of tilted headstones, trying to place Hannah Mosey - the elder - assuming her younger kin was buried nearby. Indeed, he found the intrusive mound of displaced dirt and rock a few plots down from the hallowed ground they had earlier disturbed.

From the height of the pile, it didn't seem as if Dean had made much progress. The grave was a quarter-dug, the pile of earth untidy and cascading over the edge. It didn't feel right. It wasn't like the thousand-odd other graves they'd dug.

Then, the moonlight caught the edge of Dean's abandoned shovel, half-buried in the red-brown rock, and Sam froze.

"Dean?"

He was painfully aware of his voice, booming in the quiet churchyard. Still - something wasn't right. A little louder this time - "Dean!"

Maybe Dean was caught in the act, picked up by some passing patrol cop. Or he was taking a break, just around the corner perhaps - Sam knowing his brother had a thing about not pissing on holy ground. Maybe...

Then he felt the all-too-familiar sensation of a spirit manifesting behind him. It was the sick swoop and jarring chill of falling into icy water. He knew the feeling so innately, his reaction was nearly unconscious. He twisted an arm back to withdraw the iron crowbar he'd tucked into the back of his jeans. The shotgun was in the duffel, loaded and ready but still - five feet away where he'd dropped the bag, _damnit_. He turned and saw the powdery form sliding towards him at impossible speed. He swung the iron across her path, leaving dissipating smoke, sparks, and a sudden skin-prickling heat. Reeling from the follow-through, Sam spun back to the grave. Wherever Dean was, he clearly hadn't finished the job yet.

There wasn't much time before the spirit returned, and given his luck it would be sooner. Priority one was dispatch the spirit. Sam seized the buried shovel and wrenched it from the ground, sending dust and rocks skittering into the semi-dug hole. Thank God for the gibbous moon. He caught the earth under the spade and dug in.

The first thing Sam noticed was that for a grave untouched in centuries, the earth moved far too easily beneath his shovel. It was almost as if it had been dug and filled in already, in which case - why was the spirit still here? Unless there was a _third_ Hannah Mosey in the family and their luck was just _that_ bad.

He tossed the dirt aside and dug in again, this time striking something hard. Rubbery, with a little give. Not the usual dull tick of blade against coffin wood. Something like -

Sam dropped to his knees and pressed his long fingers into the earth, pulling the dirt away in frantic sweeps, uncovering - _yes -_ the dusty rubber sole of his brother's boot - _no no no._

His fingers clawed around the edges of Dean's boot, seized the fabric of his jeans, confirming the worst. The thick ankle, cold, clammy beneath them. The tibial pulse… here? No - here maybe?

Somehow, sense barreled into him like a brick to the back of the head. It flung him from his position at Dean's feet and propelled him into the earth covering his head. The spade would be far more efficient, but Sam wouldn't run the risk of injuring his brother further. His hands worked furiously, pawing the earth away around his brother's form, digging like a rabid dog after a bone.

Soon, the gray corduroy of Dean's jacket folded beneath his fingertips. He pressed his hand into Dean's back… _I'm here, Dean. Just hang on_. He uncovered his neck, found the dust-gray spikes of brown hair, wrapped both hands around cool skin, hard jaw, dry lips, smooth teeth, dug in and pulled. The earth fell away in wet, cool clumps and Sam leaned back and rolled with Dean onto the ground beside the shallow tomb.

Still beneath his brother, arms now wrapped around his chest, Sam let his head fall back to the earth and felt Dean's drop with it. His fingers dug into Dean's jawline, feeling for the carotid pulse, his own breath held. Was it there - the gentle vibrating thrum? Or was it his own hand, trembling, quaking with the surge of adrenaline?

Sam sat up and gently lowered Dean onto the ground, cradling his head and thumbing clumps of wet earth away from his chalky lips.

"Come on Dean," he urged, his finger lingering beneath Dean's nose. "Come on, you stubborn ass. Wake up!"

Dean's jaw only fell open loosely and Sam's heart dropped with it. He lowered his head close to his brother's - listening. His palm crawled from Dean's jawline and spread out across his chest, each finger primed to detect the faintest sign of life.

There! A small hiccup beneath his ring finger. He dug in, felt it again. _Alive_.

Still, there was no detectible movement of air and Dean's lips were rapidly draining to a dull purple color.

"Breathe!" Sam slapped Dean's face - again and again - beating mercilessly into skin that felt clay-like, cool and unyielding. As Dean failed to respond, Sam's heart dropped even further, falling into his gut and stirring a wave of nausea. "Come on, bro. Come on," he began to chant, rubbing insistent circles over his brother's chest, his fingers catching on the folds of Dean's jacket and lifting familiar fragrances from the cloth. That cheap drug store aftershave he insisted on using. Smoke from too many bars. Gasoline. _Brother._

Then, a sudden freeze dropped over him again. Sam spun around and ended up face-full of luminescent mist. A blow of energy sprung him into the air. First he was airborne, then catching the earth as he fell, one knee cracking against something hard - a rock, a tombstone? His shoulder struck next, then the back of his head, jarring his senses with the chink of skull on rock, the white flash of his retinas shifting and returning. He drew in a hungry gulp of air through pressed lips and scrambled upright, fighting the undulating swoop of sudden nausea.

The spirit was hovering over Dean's still form. Sam rolled, blurred gaze desperately seeking the crowbar, the shotgun - anything. His trained eyes locked onto the duffel, five steps from where he sat. He pushed off the ground and lunged for it. As soon as his fingers coiled around the strap, he felt his equilibrium shift beyond his control and was once again airborne. The duffel flew from his fingers with the force of a thrown shotput. The bag landed first - bouncing and rolling towards Dean's still form. Sam landed flat on his back, skidding as the wind whooshed from his lungs. He dug into the earth with his elbows to slow his slide. His deflated lungs were heavy in his chest. He closed his eyes, forced calm breaths, unclenching, drawing air in a tight wheeze. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the spirit's mad face inches above him. Her features, once defined with a dark chiseled beauty, were now twisted in perpetual shock. The eyes wide, the lips parted, skin taut and purple against the sunken skull.

She howled and Sam felt his throat clamp shut. Another all-too-familiar feeling. His heart fluttered, his limbs surged with an electrified heat as adrenaline against spilled through every vessel. He couldn't scream. His vision drained to a dark spot. A shrill pitch whined between his ears. His arms lashed wildly, groping for the bag - the handle of the iron bar - anything. He found only dirt. Dirt. Dirt.

He couldn't die here. This was a goddamn milk run. Dean was unconscious - vulnerable - heart still beating, for now, but when the spirit finished with him - when it - _no_ \- he saw sparklers in the tunnel of darkness - _no -_ he saw the back of Dean's jacket as he closed the motel door behind him, their father's face - weary and drawn with utter disappointment. He saw 24 years draining down into a single moment. 24 _good_ years. _God, I'm sorry._ He looked up into the disfigured face of Hannah Mosey and knew her unrest was about to become his own.

Then, a shotgun blast cracked through the churchyard and she was gone.

Sam felt the cold pressure in his throat release. He gulped air, filling every inch of his starved lungs. He rolled over onto his knees and blinked hard to restore his vision. John's voice was in his ear. _Shotgun. Salt. Burn. Dean._

Sam looked across the gravesite and found Dean, propped up on one arm, wielding the shotgun with the other.

"Dean!"

Dean's response was more Velcro than voice, "Finish it!"

Sam lunged for the shovel and began to attack the loose dirt from which he had just unearthed his brother. As he worked, it was hard not to look at Dean - who had rolled away from the open grave and onto his back, clutching the shotgun with both hands against his chest, its barrel bucking as he fought to steady his breath.

"Y'okay?" Sam's voice came out frantic, pitched pre-pubescent.

"Dig!"

 _Crack._ The spade struck wood. Sam shifted position, shovel now moving in wide arcs as he flung centuries-old earth away from the surface of the casket. He was aware of the discarded clods of dirt raining down upon Dean's still-struggling form. Then he was aware of the sudden drop in temperature above him - another shotgun blast exploding next to his ear and instantly deafening him - and through it all, Dean's strangled gasp: "Hurry up!"

Sam attacked axe-like and the wooden cover disintegrated. In pitch-black earth, Hannah Mosey's bones glinted in the moonlight like buried pearls. Sam wasted no time in reaching for the can of salt, which he instinctively knew Dean was holding out to him. He seasoned the remains and struck the match. As the blaze ignited, Sam leapt out of the grave, seized Dean by the jacket sleeve, and rolled with him to safety.

The fire roared. Somewhere, all around them, a shrill-pitched wind crescendoed and died - the ghost's final scream. Then, all that was left was the damp earth beneath their backs, Dean's jacket still clutched between Sam's numb fingers, Sam breathing hard, Dean breathing harder.

"Hey, hey," Sam's fingers moved over Dean's face, brushing wet dirt from his eyes, away from his nose. Dean shook his head like a wet dog, resisting it. Sam sat upright and pulled Dean up with him, holding him fast by the collar of his jacket. "Sit up," Sam offered. "Take it easy." Beneath Sam's grip, Dean's entire surface was thrumming like an engine. "Can you breathe?"

Dean offered nothing but a shuddering nod.

Sam looked back at the silver smoke pouring out of Hannah's remains. His fists tightened against the folds of Dean's jacket. His stubborn brother was trying to stand up on his own, even as his head was bobbing and rolling like a broken puppet. Sam hauled him to his feet, threw Dean's arm over his shoulder and steadied him at the waistband.

The gravesite would have to be left disturbed. The locals would call it some freak satanic thing. No one would think twice after a week. Right now, Sam just wanted to get Dean back to the motel. Act first. Think later.

As he pulled open the Impala's backseat door and tucked Dean inside, he felt a small missing piece in his soul fall into place. It might have had something to do with the year he'd spent longing to pull his brother from a different grave and take him back home.

Dean leaned forward into the passenger seat headrest, fists clenching and unclenching in rhythm. Sam let a hand linger on his brother's shoulder a moment longer than it needed to, steadying him, feeling the undeniable thrum of life beneath his hand. Then, he went around to the drivers' side, settled into the groove Dean had left in the seat, cranked the heat, and ran every red light back to the motel.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

By the time Sam had deposited his brother onto the bed and tugged off his boots, Dean was a quivering mess.

"What's wrong?" Sam kept asking, to which Dean kept lifting his hand dismissively and choking out "I'm fine" if he had the breath.

Sam waited in agony for the sink water to heat up. By the time he returned, Dean was curled on his side in the middle of the bed, his mouth gaping open and shut like a fish on the dock. He withdrew sharply from the touch of the warm towel.

Watching his brother shake and wheeze, Sam didn't feel anything like the hero. He still felt like the scared, pissed off little brother. The weak one. The baby.

"Dean, tell me what to do," he pleaded.

Dean grabbed the towel and pressed it into his eyes. Sam stole the moment of distraction to palm Dean's forehead, feeling the heat radiating through the skin and the rapid pulse in his temples.

Sam had seen shock set into his father and brother before, knew the rapidly progressive decline all to well. Dean was tough, but not against shards of dirt and dust cutting up his lungs and an hour - or more - suffocating in a pocket of his own wasted air. Buried alive - again. _My fault - again._

He returned to the sink and filled a glass of water, then snaked an arm under Dean's shoulder to lift him.

"Drink this or I'm calling 911, cops or not."

Dean would call his bluff, of course, but took the water willingly. He even got a few good gulps down before the spasms in his throat took over. Sam braced him upright as he choked and sputtered into the towel. When he pulled it away, the mucus was peppered with gray. _No blood though_.

"Need to get warm," Sam said, more to himself. But when he tried to pull the dusty comforter up over his brother, Dean's arms shot out in wild protest and Sam had to jump back to avoid being struck. Without Sam's grip on him, Dean rolled loosely onto his back and reached for the ceiling, fingers clawed and grasping at the air. Digging.

Sam felt something cold erupt in the center of his ribs. When Dean showed up at his door after four months down under, Sam's first and only thought was – how'd he get out of Hell. He never thought about how he got out of the _ground_. For the first time, he realized that Cass hadn't just poofed Dean back topside. There'd been this. Darkness. Drowning in dirt. Digging.

Instinct moved him to grasp his brother's clawing fingers within his own.

"Listen to me," he soothed. "You're out. You got out. Feel that?" He blew breath across his brother's face. "Feel the air?"

Dean nodded against the pillow and drew a shuddering breath through pursued lips. Still clutching his brother's hands, Sam lowered himself onto the bed beside him again, and Dean's body stilled a few paces.

"Sammy?" he gurgled, "M'sorry."

Sam closed the last of the space between them, blew another stream of cool air onto his brother's temples and drew the blanket back over them both.

"Relax, bro," he whispered. "We're good."


End file.
